


we're all laughing with

by rumpledlinen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, Genderswap, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:25:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpledlinen/pseuds/rumpledlinen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Willa Graham," you say. She's a pretty young thing - dark hair to her shoulders, hazel eyes behind thick glasses. You tilt your head to the side, cocking one side of your mouth upwards. "How do you do."</p><p>"Yeah," Jack says, and he gestures toward you. "Dr. Lecter is going to be the consultant on this case."</p><p>You hold out your hand. Willa doesn't take it; she just stares at you, unblinking. (She doesn't look you in the eyes, though; just below, at your nose. Your smile flickers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're all laughing with

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a genderswapped Hannibal fic, told in second person. If anyone still wants to read this, here it is. :) 
> 
> Warnings for everything in the show, basically. Glorification of murder, talk of cannibalism, accidental cannibalism.
> 
> Title from Laughing With, by Regina Spektor. I don't own the Hannibal characters.

"Tell me about your past," you say.

He shifts his eyes up to you. You cross your legs, lean in, tilt your head; he relaxes, almost imperceptible. You smile, reassuring. 

"Tell me about your mother."

"She was a _bitch_ ," he rasps, shaking his head. "A god damn, rotten -" and he breaks off in tears.

Your smile turns to one of pity; of concern, and you surreptitiously look at the clock sitting at your elbow. You hold out the box of tissues, making him reach for it.  
You don't miss the glance he sends up your skirt. _Pig_ , you think, but your smile never wavers.

*

"Willa Graham," you say. She's a pretty young thing - dark hair to her shoulders, hazel eyes behind thick glasses. You tilt your head to the side, cocking one side of your mouth upwards. "How do you do."

"Yeah," Jack says, and he gestures toward you. "Dr. Lecter is going to be the consultant on this case."

You hold out your hand. Willa doesn't take it; she just stares at you, unblinking. (She doesn't look you in the eyes, though; just below, at your nose. Your smile flickers.)

*

"Don't psychoanalyze me," Willa whispers, lips curving around the words. "You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed."

And you tap your nails on the desk, narrowing your eyes just a bit.

*

(You kill first when you are thirteen years old. He put his hand on your thigh and you narrowed your eyes and thought _no_.

Later - two weeks later, after following him and finding out where he lived (alone; just a deaf dog keeping him company) you slice his throat after waking him up. You want to see the light leaving his eyes; you want to watch as he dies.

After, you cook yourself a nice meal. You smile as your lips slide down the fork; you lick up every last drop.

"Delicious," you whisper in the empty house.

And after that, you find you can't stop.)

*

You save Abigail's life because you must; you know how and as she looks at you, eyes wide, you think _maybe she knows_. But she can't; you're too careful. 

(And if she does, well - you have a plan for that, a grand plan.)

Your nails against her neck, pressing there. You feel her blood slip through your fingers and you breathe, count to five, until the blood flow slows.

Willa's called 911, is standing there looking shocked. Her face is painted with Hobbs' blood. Later, you know, you will have to discuss this. Her pupils are dilated, mouth open wide. 

_She's turned on_ , you think, almost idly, and your fingers tighten around Abigail's neck. Just a bit.

*

"How did you feel, killing him?" you ask, eyes up, trained on Willa's. You have to keep eye contact with her; she won't tell you anything except with her face.

She laughs, a harsh sound. "How do you think?"

You shrug, a delicate movement. You sit back in your chair; your skirt rides up on your thigh and you watch as she glances down at the v between your legs, the way her hand clenches for just a second. (You would smile if you didn't have appearances to keep up.) "I don't know," you say instead, careful; measured. "You tell me."

She presses her lips together for a small moment and then chokes it out - "I liked killing Hobbs," she whispers. It sounds almost religious, the way it rolls off of her tongue.

 _Yes_ you think but don't say. 

*

"Help," Willa says, when you open the door on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Don't you have class right now?" you ask, and position yourself so she can see that your office is empty. You watch her eyes flick there and back and land at your nose. 

She pulls her glasses out of her pocket and puts them on. "Yeah," she says, staring at you.

You open the door wider and let her in.

*

(What she needs is to be heard; she needs to not hear from Jack that there's something wrong with her, to not have Alana avoiding being alone with her. She needs someone, plain and simple.

You sit with her and let her breathe, head in her hands. You don't bother her; you sit and wait while she calms down and then tries to solve the copycat killer.

"I've been dreaming," she mumbles. "A stag - it's him. Her. I don't know." She shakes her head, curls all over. "I need - I _need_ to solve this."

You lean over and grab her knee, squeeze once, twice. "You will," you promise beneath blood-red lips. You smile when she looks at you. It's almost feral, but she won't notice. (She doesn't want to.)

"You think?"

You nod.)

*

"Why do you think of the copycat as a stag?"

She shakes her head. "He impaled her on a stag. He wanted me to find her." A pause. “He wants to be found.”

"You seem awfully convinced he's a - well, he."

She smiles. "You think it was a woman?" Something in her face shifts. "It almost makes sense." She tilts her head back, staring at the ceiling. It's fascinating, watching her mind work. "Almost," she breathes. 

*

She comes to you and begs; and all you can do is give her what she’s asking. 

(“Kiss me,” she breathes out, “I need – please.”

How can you deny that?)

You kiss her with a closed mouth, short little moments until she’s gasping out _please_ against your neck. “I need – I need you, oh.”

You pull down her skirt with an efficient movement and press your fingers inside of her. It doesn’t take long before she’s coming, short nails leaving crescent-shaped marks in your arm.

After, she lies there, eyes wide open. “I’ve got it,” she whispers, and turns to you. “I’ve solved – I’ve got it.”

She gets up without another word, and shifts from one foot to the other, before –

“Go,” you say, almost a command.

She closes her eyes and nods. 

You fuck yourself on your fingers, liking the way it almost hurts, the way when you scratch across your chest it bleeds. 

You lie there, too, and smile.

 _Yes_.

*

You want and don't want her to find out in equal measures. 

You want to share this with her; you want to watch her kill with no qualms, no nightmares - but at the same time you want it to stay like this, wide-eyed, innocent (in this sense, if only this sense) Willa following you with no idea what you are.

There are some nights that she looks at you and you think she knows - she must know, she's eating a boy you followed and tackled - but then the look is gone and she's all smiles, pure innocence on her face. It’d be sweet if you didn’t want her to know.

You drop hints.

One day, you know, she'll figure it out.

One day.

(And when she does, oh. _Oh_ , won't it be lovely.

You smile. You wait.)


End file.
